The Masters' Chronicles 009- Mother Bear
by Fainmaca
Summary: A Master of the Witcher School, Ruta must protect her apprentice as he faces his most dangerous trial yet. Based on characters and events from the first International edition of the Witcher School LARP in Poland.


It had once been a watchtower, a tall spire atop the only hill for miles around. Until a few years previously, it had stood guard over the Redanian grasslands that stretched out and away from it for several leagues around, monitoring the broad roads that criss-crossed that countryside, keeping an alert lookout for marauding bandits, enemy armies, and other threats.

Then, on a cloudless day, a dark shadow had torn down out of the sky, a winged monstrosity of enormous size. The beast had ripped into the tower with ferocity, shattering stone and timber in its wrath. In mere minutes, the ancient stone pillar was sundered, its inhabitants devoured. Now, little more than a ring of stones remained, reaching up just over the height of a man. Half of the first floor remained, held up by a couple of splintered beams that sagged down towards the ground. This created a small alcove, a simple shelter against the elements inside of which a small fire now burned bravely, fighting back the night's gloom. The dancing flames cast dozens of shadows across the inside of the ruined tower, flickering shapes that haunted the corners of the eye.

Two figures huddled next to the fire, clinging to its warmth. One, a young man, lay prone, a cloak spread over his shivering body. Clammy sweat beaded on his skin, glistening in the firelight. His eyes were clenched shut as he wrestled with some nightmare or other. An occasional whimper would slip from his throat, much to the consternation of his companion.

The other figure next to the fire, a woman knelt next to the prone form, leaning over him with a worried look crossing her features. She adjusted the roll of cloth that she had put under his head, trying to make him as comfortable as possible.

She was slight of frame, a small, unimposing figure. Even so, the way she moved, the way she carried herself, all betrayed a power hidden within the unassuming form. Onlookers could easily have been taken in by her gentle features, only to realise too late that she was also a fierce fighter, many years of hard living have created a core of strength deep within her. This strength was only further shown when one noted the glimmering medallion that hung from a chain around her neck, a snarling wolf's head baring its teeth at the night. The symbol of a Witcher, a monster hunter.

Ruta leaned back on her heels, reaching up to rub a dirt-stained hand across her brow. She ran her fingers through her brown hair, cut short so as not to inconvenience her in battle. Her eyes, the typical feral yellow that all Witchers shared, closed wearily as a sigh escaped from her pursed lips. When she opened them again, she looked down at the young man before her, the apprentice she had taken for herself. The boy, barely fifteen years of age, was called Lenn, a farmhand who had been offered up to the Witchers as payment for a contract. Now, after a mere six months of training under Ruta's hand, he was facing the most deadly challenge of his apprenticeship.

The Trial of Grasses. She still remembered hers, carried out in a filthy barn on a long-abandoned farmstead. She'd screamed and wept for three days, before the fire in her veins had faded. For a moment, she imagined that she had died, could have sword that she felt her heart stop beating in her breast, before Master Raven, with that familiar grim set to his jaw and stern light in his eyes, had pulled her through the process and back into the land of the living, no longer the Human she had once been. Now, here she was doing the same thing to another, carrying on the old Witcher's legacy.

Ruta paused, looking down at her hands, hands that were now stained with blood. She looked back to Lenn, noting the long incisions that she had made in his neck, knowing there were far worse wounds inflicted underneath the cloak. The butchery necessary to transform a person into a Witcher. To one side, an array of glass vials lay empty, their contents used in the grisly procedure. The stench of the many different herbs and ingredients hung upon the air, choking her throat and nostrils with every breath.

A grunting snarl echoed through the night air, prompting Ruta to look up. Beasts were always a risk in such a remote place, especially now the odour of the herbs she had used were spreading on the wind. Many monsters were attracted by such scents, often drawn near in the hopes of finding something appetising to eat. This was part of the reason why Witchers who favoured the old ways would seek to carry out the Trials in a remote place, rather than risk drawing the beasts towards a village of unsuspecting innocents. Of course, nowadays Raven and the other masters of the guild chose to carry out the Trials in the ancient keep of Kaer Tiele, where the dozens of Witchers present guaranteed no interference from any kind of monster. Perhaps it would have been safer for her to do the same with the young man before her, Ruta mused, but the methods used by the Witchers of the keep, experimenters such as Meinard and Petre, didn't sit well with her.

The Witcheress stifled a shudder as her mind strayed towards the things she had witnessed in the old castle. The experiments that Meinard had carried out, and the failures it had produced. The survival rates were higher than with those Trials carried out using the old ways, true, but at times the Witchers it created were... wrong. Twisted. Of course, the Witcher of Mettina wasn't concerned about such failures.

Images rose in the eye of Ruta's mind, memories of the last time she had seen Meinard carry out a Trial. The dead, emotionless look in his eyes. The dispassionate way his hands moved as he cut the screaming adept open. The stench of decay that filled the room as, three weeks later, the Witcher hopeful died of his wounds, Meinard coldly declaring his passing and ordering the servants to dispose of the corpse. A chill ran down the Witcheress' spine. No student of hers to go under that butcher's knife. Not as long as she had any say in the matter.

Another throaty growl dragged Ruta from her thoughts. She tilted her head, listening carefully. A Nekker. There must have been a nest of the vicious little Ogroids nearby. They were getting close.

Indecision tugged at Ruta's heart. She could go out there and fight off the beasts, but that would mean leaving Lenn alone. Every instinct inside of her fought against that thought, but if she allowed the creatures to get close, to swarm the tower, they could further harm the young adept. If the Ogroids moved in a large enough tribe, it would be difficult for her to fight them all off.

No. She couldn't leave Lenn, not even to fight these creatures. If even one of the beasts found its way into the tower while she was away, or there were some other complication with her ward, she needed to be here, looking over him. She let out an anxious, frustrated sigh, leaning over the young man again, pulling open one of his eyelids to check how his pupil responded. She laid a hand on his forehead, chewing her lip as she felt the immense heat simmering in his flesh. He needed water infused with Cortinarius powder, to ease the fever. She picked up a discarded bowl, searching the pouches on her belt for the needed ingredients.

The noises continued around her, drawing closer. No doubt the Nekkers had the scent of the herbs now. It wouldn't be long before they spotted the light of the flames and rushed in. Ruta finished tending to her patient, then stood, looking about warily. Her swords, the silver and steel blades that all Witchers carried, were close at hand, wrapped in a bolt of linen next to her travelling pack. The Witcheress retrieved the steel weapon, sliding it from its sheath with practised ease. She took a moment to look at the weapon's edge, noting the scratches and marks that marred it. While she kept the blade sharp, it had been some time since Raven had gifted her this blade, and the years of use were beginning to show.

She shrugged, dropping into a sitting position, her legs crossed, her blade across her lap. She closed her eyes, trying to meditate and centre herself. She was not the best when it came to meditation, quite often finding her mind and body too restless to sit still for prolonged periods of time like Raven would do, but she could feel her anxiety bunching up in her belly, pawing at her mind. She needed to do something to ease her tension. She breathed in deeply, then released, trying to go through the exercises that Raven had once taught her.

A sudden, loud snarl, dangerously close, tore her from her meditation. Ruta's eyes snapped open to see a squat, fat-bellied figure clambering over the remains of one of the walls. The Nekker, its open mouth filled with brown, rotten teeth, looked at her with a hungry growl. Its eyes glimmered in the darkness, reflecting the orange of the flames. It scrambled across the stones of the tower's walls with filthy hands, cracked nails finding purchase between the brickwork. It jumped, landing on the rubble-strewn floor of the tower with a grunt, before assuming a low squat, fingers scraping at the ground as it glared at the Witcheress, the fire, and the boy writhing next to the flames. A thick, greasy tongue rasped along its lips as it spied the vulnerable youngster, hungry intent in its stance.

Ruta leapt to her feet, sword instantly in her hand. She took a threatening step towards the monster, the beast scuttling back a pace at her movement. The Nekker wasn't a threat on its own, but where one roamed, others were sure to follow. She needed to keep her wits about her.

The Nekker snarled, rising from its squat to stand to its full height, only some three feet or so. It let out a deep, guttural bellow, a challenge.

"Fuck off!" Ruta yelled in answer, stepping forward again, making sure to keep her sword between her and the beast. "Filthy shit-eating bastards! Stay back!"

The creature flinched at her words, but did not run. Instead, it let out another snarl, one that was this time answered by a dozen other throats. Ruta looked up to see several other figures crest the top of the walls, all around her. She was surrounded. She set her teeth, a deep, fierce growl rumbling in her throat. Then, letting her growl rise into a cry of challenge, she lunged at the first of the beasts, the haze of battle falling across her eyes as her sword cut its lethal arc through the air.

~o~0~o~

Sunlight spilled into the ruined tower, the rising dawn casting bright shafts of light through empty windows and large holes in the wall. inside, the stench of death filled the air. Bodies lay all around the campfire, in varying states of mutilation. Dozens of Nekkers lay slain, some cut open from groin to throat, others dismembered, one unfortunate individual having his head crushed by a large rock, thrown by ferocious, furious hands. Blood coated the walls, the floor, and the rubble in a slick sheen, its scent cloying in the morning's cool breeze.

In the midst of the carnage, Ruta stood, her armour scratched, her sword coated with blood and gore. She panted, shoulders rising and falling as she tried to slow her heartbeat. A long, jagged gash ran across her forearm, where a luck claw swipe had found a gap in her armour. Other than that, she was bruised, beaten, and it felt as though she'd taken a pretty bad hit to the head. Even so, she'd dispatched every last one of the enormous pack of Ogroids, killing them with relative ease. Even when the larger, more brutish members of the tribe has tried to rush her, showing more cunning and cruelty than their smaller brethren, the Witcheress had slain them with little hesitation. Even so, the fight had been a challenge, simply due to the large numbers of the pack.

As the final drops of adrenaline vanished from her blood, the Witcheress sagged, at last allowing the tip of her sword to drop. She'd done it. They'd made it through the night. She dropped to one knee, drawing in a lung-full of the cold air of the dawn. She looked about, relief filling her. The campsite was a mess, and at one point a stumbling Nekker had staggered through the campfire, scattering the burning logs, but otherwise she'd managed to stand as a bulwark between the beasts and her student. None had even come close to the young lad.

With a satisfied grunt, the Witcheress set her sword aside, then moved closer to the fire. She gathered up the wood with careful hands, building a small pile once more before using a small Igni sign to re-ignite it. Once she was satisfied with her work, Ruta turned back to Lenn, and froze.

The boy was still, completely unmoving under his cloak. His skin was pale, almost grey in colour. The air of stillness around him was one Ruta had seen all too often.

A sudden tightness filled Ruta's chest as she scrambled over to kneel next to him, a shaking hand reaching up to place two fingers against his throat. No pulse. She ripped the cloak aside, heedless of the wounds that covered his torso as she placed her ear to his sternum. As the side of her face pressed against his chest, she became sickeningly aware of just how cold his skin was. No heartbeat. A lump rose in her throat.

"No..." She whispered, fighting against her rising panic. "No, no, no..."

She placed her hands on his chest, thrusting down in quick, repeated motions. As she did so, magical energy pulsed through her palms, the mystical sign of Aard. She pressed down several times, then moved her cheek close to his mouth, looking for any sign of him drawing a breath. There was nothing.

"No, come on, Lenn." Her voice was hoarse as she tried pressing on his chest again, trying to set his heart beating once more. "Not now. The danger's gone now, I got them all! Come on!"

What could have happened, she wondered. Was it infection? Blood loss? The body rejecting one of the mutations? All of these questions and more rose in her mind as she silently cursed herself for allowing the fight with the Nekkers to draw her attention away from her student. If only she'd been more alert, kept a closer eye on him during the fight... Predatory thoughts of regret and self-condemnation circled around in her head.

She continued, alternating between trying to restart his heart and pushing air into his lungs, for some time, the rapidly cooling body in front of her refusing to respond to her efforts. Time passed, although she couldn't say how much. Doggedly, the Witcheress kept trying to resuscitate her student. Her quiet, frantic pleas echoed off the walls of the ancient ruin, no answer forthcoming.

Finally, after the sun had climbed some way into the sky overhead, the Witcheress stopped her work, an exhausting wave of defeat washing over her. She slumped back, sitting on her heels for a long, silent eternity. Her shoulders sagged as tears danced in the corners of her eyes. With a final, weary sob, she leaned forward, scooping her fallen apprentice up in a tight, powerful embrace. Two words, muttered quietly, almost unable to find their way out of a raw, painful throat and past shivering lips, trembled their way into the morning sky.

"I'm sorry."

~o~0~o~

The sun was already beginning its descent, racing towards the far horizon as orange light spilled across the land. A few birds, their day's hunting over, flitted back towards their nests, eager to be reunited with their families.

Under the evening sky, Ruta slowly trudged her way down the hill, away from the tower. A numb weariness filled her as she shouldered her pack, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. She worked her way down the slope, finally reaching the roadway that ran north, heading deep into the Temerian heartland, passing through Vizima and, eventually, working its way to Kaer Tiele.

She paused at the edge of the road, glancing along its length towards the north, then turning her gaze to the south as temptation pulled at her. The chance to just walk the Path a little longer, to hunt and explore and live her Witcher's life to the fullest.

She glanced back at the tower, thinking of the small cairn of stones that now occupied its centre. Guilt tugged at her once again. How many more Lenns would there be, all in need of the same care and guidance that he had? How many more would end up cut loose, without someone to look up to and learn from? Worse, how many would end up in the hands of someone like Meinard, or Petre?

A long, low sigh escaped from Ruta's lips. Her mind made up, the Witcheress took her first steps onto the road, and turned north. There was a village she knew of, not far away. A little place called Boggevrieg. It would suffice for a few nights, while she rested. Beyond that lay Kaer Tiele, and who knew how many young students, waiting for her return.


End file.
